


A Lanyard, A Penguin, And Bea Arthur

by heuradys



Category: due South
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-12-31
Updated: 2005-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-08 19:59:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3221525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heuradys/pseuds/heuradys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pretty much what it says on the tin. Kinda. Title was the prompt I was given for dS Seekrit Santa 2005 verbatim.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Lanyard, A Penguin, And Bea Arthur

**Author's Note:**

> The recipient was Kijikun and my lovely beta was Raffe.

Ray hated the Wednesday before Christmas with a passion. Irrespective of the day Christmas fell on, the prior Wednesday was doomsday at whatever precinct he was working. And he _always_ got stuck working that Wednesday, even the year he'd come down with some weird Aztecan stomach death flu and was hurling every twenty minutes. 

This was _supposed_ to be his day off. He was _supposed_ to be naked and sweaty and getting his Christmas present early, not dealing with some guy's stolen _yacht_ , another guy who stabbed his girlfriend, Doreen, because she refused to make sauerkraut for him, and Frannie gossiping and hanging wreaths on every damned thing that didn't move and some that did.

He'd only been at work an hour and this year was no different, down to the fact the 6/^ key stopped working on his keyboard. It was some sort of curse. Indisputably. 

Because if it wasn't one, Dewey would have been the one suffering. But _no_ ,his sister Lillian _had_ to pick today to go into labor. In Ohio.

Ray juggled his handfuls of files into one hand, grabbing his phone on its 9th ring, nearly growling, "Vecchio."

"Yeah, Vecchio, this is Eccles down at the 21. Merry Christmas."

"Yeah, merry happy whateverthefuck to you, too. What do you want?" He dropped the files on his desk, propped the phone between his shoulder and ear, and started paging through the top one. "Kinda busy here."

"We've got one of your Mounties in lockup."

Just what he needed. "Oh Jesus fucking Christ." A ruler came down on his knuckles. "Ow!" He snatched his hand away from the edge of his desk, shooting a glare at his ruler-wielding attacker that was returned with full force. "Back off, sister, or I'll book you for battery and you'll be eatin' that ruler!"

The station was _crawling_ with nuns in full penguin drag. Some drunk from Montana was standing on Huey's desk and declaiming about Plutarch, arithmetic, and choreography. And Diefenbaker--left behind in Fraser's hurry to escape from Frannie's mistletoe and get back to the Consulate before the Ice Queen noticed he was gone--was cowering under Ray's desk being abnormally gassy, probably from the lemon zest or the chicory or whatever the hell it was that Frannie had put too much of in today's cookies. 

Ray wished he could escape, too, but didn't have the convenient excuse of Consular duties. Mountie bastards. Welsh would have his nuts for wind chimes if he took off without a really, really good reason, and wanting to spend Doomsday Wednesday in bed with a naked Mountie wouldn't cut it.

"Vecchio?" Eccles was laughing, the dink.

"First off, they're not _my_ Mounties. They're Canada's. Who'd he torque off this time? What was he licking? He didn't get in another Mob boss' face, did he?"

There was silence at the other end of the phone, then a cough. "Licking? Barstow and Barnard didn't say anything about licking. There was a ruckus at a PETA protest, and while they're _a_ mob, they're not _the_ Mob."

"A 'ruckus'?" He ducked a pair of flying furry dice, watching Huey trying to restrain a Nigerian reverend without being disrespectful about it. "Define 'ruckus', because I probably could top it with what's happening in front of my desk."

" _Your_ Mountie--" 

Ray rolled his eyes at Eccles' pointed emphasis, leaning back in his chair. 

"--threw a vegan cheesecake at Bea Arthur--"

Okay, yeah, so Eccles was right. It was _his_ Mountie. Ray sat bolt upright, not even trying to fight his grin. 

"--scored a direct hit--"

Go, Turnbull! 

"--then burst into tears and _insisted_ on being arrested. You want to come pick him up? Because she's not pressing charges, just wants her dry-cleaning bills to come out of his--and I quote--pathetic policeman's salary. And he's driving us _nuts._ He won't _leave._ "

~~

Welsh hadn't taken it well, but "Mountie in distress! Gotta go!" had gotten Ray out of the station with all his limbs still attached. He'd left Dief with Frannie, grabbed his jacket, and bolted. 

The 21 wasn't packed with nutjobs and penguins. The closest thing they had was the Portuguese stripper arguing with their desk sergeant about castanets and the proper pronunciation of Lisbon, and an odd, faint smell of chlorine permeating everything. Otherwise, they had _normal_ scumbags and dirtballs. How'd they get so lucky?

Eccles spotted him, slapped him on the back, and rushed him toward the holding cells. Before they even got there, Ray could hear Turnbull. Oh Christ, they'd got Turnbull started on _opera_. No wonder Eccles was so happy to see him.

"--but Monteverdi, despite his many madrigals and sacred music, never did a canticle. I admire him very much indeed, despite not being Thomistic myself. How can you not admire one of the founders of opera, Officer Balboa?"

Balboa, a squat, surly man, looked relieved that he didn't have to answer. "Yer ride's here." He jerked his thumb toward Ray and Eccles as they approached, and took off with Eccles when they reached it, leaving Ray at the open door.

Turnbull was sitting primly on the edge of one of the cell's cots, like if he moved he'd get his uniform dirty. Ray slouched against the doorjamb, hands in his pockets. "So, I hear you assaulted a Golden Girl, Ren. Way to spend your day off. Wish I could've seen it."

Turnbull looked at him. "Indeed I did, Ray, and I fear you'll be able to see the whole unfortunate event on tonight's news. I was at loose ends after you were called in to work, so I made Ms. Arthur a cheesecake--purely vegan--and took it to the protest. You _know_ how much I admire her and her work with PETA--despite PETA's tactics--and..."

"And she loves cheesecake, right? Didn't you say somethin' about that about 90 times when you heard she'd be here?"

"My information was erroneous!" Turnbull stood, looking disconsolate. "She... she..."

"What did she do? Do I need to kick her in the head?" He hated the Golden Girls. Maude, okay, Maude was cool. 

"She made disparaging comments about my appearing at a PETA protest while wearing leather boots and quite impolitely told me that she _despises_ cheesecake! And she walked away!" 

"So you nailed her with it?" Ray laughed. 

"I--I snapped, Ray. I called her name, she looked back, and I _threw_ it. I'm dreadfully sorry. I insisted they arrest me, and they brought me here and called you. This cell--they said it's their most luxe--it's filthy. What they could do with a good algaecide and a scrub brush would amaze them. But I am sorry."

"Hey, quit apologizing! Sounds like Bea deserved a soy cheesecake in the face." He pulled Ren into a hug and patted him on the back. "And I don't think this could have turned out better if you'd planned it." 

Wait a minute... The sounds Turnbull was making beside his ear didn't sound unhappy. And there was no way Welsh _wouldn't_ believe him if he spent all day tomorrow bitching about how he'd had to baby-sit a distraught Turnbull, not with the friggin' _news footage._ Sneaky Mountie...

"You _did_ plan it, didn't you? Admit it!"

Turnbull squeezed him a bit more tightly. "Happy Wednesday before Christmas, Ray," he murmured in Ray's ear.

"Let's go home," Ray suggested, grinning, ribs creaking from the hug. "I'll let you tie me up with your lanyard again..."


End file.
